How Times Can Change
by Jenna Black
Summary: ReWritten as of Feb 06. Hermione's inner dialouge as she watches the sunset with her beloved. Starts out HH, but ends up HGRL.


Right now I'm sitting on the porch of my small house. It's spirited house, old in stature and at the end of a lane in Hogsmeade. I can see students from Hogwarts running by to buy their last tricks and treats; it is the first trip of the new school year, and the third years look so in wonder at the sights before them. It is three weeks until Halloween, a day now dedicated to all the fallen heroes. The sun is setting, and right now it is what I have always thought of as 'magic time'; that mystical time of day where the sun is casting a beautiful, near purple light around everything. It is also that time when it seems there is no option but to think back to the times of my youth.

When we were young, we were thought of as the 'dream team'. We were a seemingly unstoppable group of friends who could never lose, only conquer. And we did… until the dream team turned into a nightmare, and the tightly knot group were once were frayed into something unrecognizable. Harry, Ron, and Ginny were taken away one at a time, until now, when I am all that is left. I am the only remainder of the team, the family, and of our small world.

Ginny was the first of our group to be torn away; but then again she wasn't torn. She willingly cut herself out of the group. Ginny was always the Weasley to cause a storm, more so than even Fred and George in her later teens. Around her the waters were never calm, they _raged_. And rage they did, straight into a love for Draco Malfoy, the one person we could never redeem. Since he would never leave his world of deception and defeat, she dyed herself in black and joined him. I always thought we were fighting for a lot of things, but really, all those reasons boiled down to one. Love. I just never thought it would pull us apart the way it did. Ginny Weasley no longer exists; now it is Virginia Malfoy.

After Ginny turned, we were hurt; but in the beginning it was and really began to grow up. It wasn't long before Harry and I were dating, and Harry was playing for the Canons. Ron went off to Romania to study dragons, and came back stronger, smarter, and more powerful than he had ever been while at Hogwarts. I became a teacher at Hogwarts, taking over as Transfiguration after Minerva became Headmaster; as well as taking over Gryffindor house. Though Dumbledore was not given the peaceful death he was hoping for, he is probably at least happy with what has become of Hogwarts. For me, those first few months of school were wonderful; no matter how terrible the real world was with the war. Tucked away in the haven that was Hogwarts, it was easy to forget about the real world. But that all came crashing down around me soon after; when my life finally merged with the outside world. Ron was taken.

Voldemort knew the only way to Harry Potter was through his friends; we were his family more than his blood. Because working at Hogwarts made me unattainable, Death Eaters attacked Ron on his way home from work. They took him on Halloween, and returned home three weeks later. Voldemort knew there would be no point in killing Ron, in the end it would just make us stronger; they destroyed him instead. His vibrant life force was dulled, demented, and warped. He now resides in a room next to Neville's parents. To him there is no escape until death, which is still far beyond the horizon.

After the rape of Ron's mind, Harry receded into himself. Blaming himself for everything that had happened since Voldemort's return; he collapsed into himself. His normally pure white sprit was slowly darkening into a murky gray, with only wisps of white about it. I knew he needed to be redeemed, in whatever way possible; in desperation I arranged an intervention. On Christmas day, I had everyone whom he had ever helped come to our flat; when he awoke it was to a flat full of people. Sirius, Remus, Hagrid, Minerva, Severus, all of the Weasley's; everyone was there, everyone that mattered. There were obvious gaps, left in honor of those who had been lost. My intervention worked, and the Harry that we had once known returned; tarnished and jaded, but _Harry._

It wasn't long after that we were married. The wedding was beautiful, held on the grounds of Hogwarts, with Minerva officiating. We moved into Godric's Hollow, in a house less than a mile away from Harry's parent's old house. The house is gone now; it fell in a blaze of orange as Harry fell in a blaze of green. I was at Hogwarts when the attack happened, and had to go through the horror of being told by Minerva and Remus. Yet there were few of us that truly mourned; when the spell brought about the end of Harry's life, the scar that had kept him connected to Voldemort remained. The spell rebounded from Harry, and when the ashes were combed they were both found dead. The world was free, and instantly Harry's death became justifiable. Everyone else went into a celebration mode, happily dancing through their days.

But I couldn't. Those first few weeks without him were terrible. It felt as if the rest of the world was forcing their happiness on me, and I wanted none of it. I was dead inside; with no grip on reality, and no family to pull me back. My formerly wonderful life was burnt, cut, torn, faded, and worn. As a group we would never be redeemed or saved. Not in this world, the next, or even in our memories; wherever you turn we were scarred.

Slowly though, time passed, and things started to get better. I still had friends around me, once I chose to acknowledge them. I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for Remus, Severus, and Minerva. Going through what I had been through; I was stained red, and dipped in black. Because of those three I was able to come away spotless. More time passed, and I went to Madam Pomfrey; I hadn't felt right in weeks and couldn't figure out why. She gave me the news that truly gave my life meaning. Before Harry had sacrificed himself for the world, he had left a part of him behind… in me. I was three months pregnant.

Six months have now passed since that day; and the twins Harry and Ron are due to grace us with their presence any day now. A lot has happened since that day as well. After months of denying it, I have found a new love in Remus. My heart can now think of the past without breaking, and I can say I've moved on and truly mean it. But the past is still with me, and I still can hold it with me. As a way to pass time I've taken up painting, I'm still nowhere near good; but I'm trying. And the latest painting I've been working on is an abstract; of a blanket on a stone. It is for the twin's room, and though the blanket has no seeable patter, it tells a story. Our story.

The colors swirl together at first in a wonderfully intricate pattern, and then separate off into their own separate corners. A black and red corner for Ginny, a jumble of colors for Ron, green and grey for Harry, and yellow with teardrop blue splotches, one for each person I've lost.

I'm sure to the rest of the world it will look ugly; but to me it is beautiful. And to those who know, it will tell our story, and that story will never be forgotten. My sons should always know the story of four friends and the world, of when can happen when they join, when they fail, when they fall, and when they love. Most of the painting is done now; the only thing I have left to paint is the center. Inside the swirling patter of the others, I have to paint two more strands, exploding outward in a starburst patter together. One silver and one gold; for my sons. The canvas started mostly white, and then it became midnight black, with brighter layers working in some spots to bring it back from darkness. It's taken a lot of work, but now, in areas, it is gradually returning to white. It truly is a perfect metaphor or this life of mine, both its present and it's past.

I'll never be able to forget the past, and I don't think I will ever truly be able to leave it behind. But sitting here, in the arms of my beloved, with both of our hands on the large swell of the child in my stomach, I feel as close as I can to leaving it all behind. To being in a state of peace. I watch the children running by and for once don't wish to be a part of them; but only appreciate the beauty of youth for what it is. I know I can't predict the future, and that nothing will ever be certain. All I have is right now, with a small pressure ever-present against my stomach, the spirit of a lost love within me, and the love of another just beginning. And for me, that's enough.


End file.
